


Chicken Noodle

by rellkelltn87



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Eggplant Parmigiana, Forgiveness, Season 21, Soup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:55:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22655107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rellkelltn87/pseuds/rellkelltn87
Summary: It's Valentine's Day. Barba works for a political law firm. Carisi wants to try one of Barba's cases in criminal court. Barba challenges Carisi to eat soup with a fork.From love prompt: two ADAs trying to take a case from the other, and weird prompt: SOUP.
Relationships: Rafael Barba/Dominick "Sonny" Carisi Jr.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30
Collections: Barisi Valentine Prompt Challenge 2020





	Chicken Noodle

“What the hell, Barba?”

“Counselor,” Barba said, standing up from behind his desk, “I think you’re lost.”

Carisi shut the door behind him. Barba’s office at the political law firm where he now worked had nothing on the judge’s-chambers-like space he’d occupied on Centre Street, but there was enough room for Carisi to reach Barba in three long, dramatic, pissed-off strides.

Barba smirked up at Carisi. “You’re lost. You’re so lost you think it’s three years ago.”

“You know why I’m here.”

“We are a political firm that does a public service during elections,” Barba said with a shallow sigh. “It’s not my fault that your boss decided that the Staley case is a civil matter.”

“Yeah, well, if the case goes to civil court, the fact that Amy Tindall was sexually assaulted in the crowd at a Staley rally gets lost in the shuffle.”

“She’s still able to sue,” Barba said, shifting his gaze to the wall.

“What the hell happened to you?”

Barba sat back down behind his desk, now completely unable to look Carisi in the eye. Carisi could see that his _what the hell happened to you_ had struck a chord with his former mentor.

“Listen,” Carisi said, softening his voice a bit but refusing to let up on account of Amy Tindall, who deserved better, “I’m glad you found a new niche with this political stuff, but you haven’t been the same since you ate that baby.”

Barba, a little startled, looked up at Carisi. “What?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Fin, Amanda, and I decided that since we couldn’t handle thinking about what you actually did, what you actually got yourself involved in, we’d say you left the DA’s office because you ate a baby.”

With his palms pressed flat against the surface of his desk, Barba breathed out sharply, through pursed lips. “I do seem like the type.”

“Rafael,” Carisi said, taking one of the two seats opposite Barba’s desk, “I need you to talk to Hadid and convince her that the sexual assault aspect of this case must be handled in criminal court, not by an elections law firm.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Carisi closed his eyes and shook his head. “For how many years I looked up to you, how you pursued justice —”

“Don’t lay on the guilt, I’ve got enough of that already.”

“Good. Ms. Tindall’s assault needs to be handled in criminal court, end of story.”

“That’s up to Hadid, then,” Barba said with a shrug.

“You _know_ that if your firm talked to her, told her that a sexual assault that happened during a political rally was outside your scope of practice —”

“Except it’s not. We handle civil cases incidental to larger cases all the time.”

“Larger,” Carisi said, “and that’s my point. Amy Tindall’s getting lost in your political big picture.”

“Liv raised you well, I see.”

Barba stood again, probably, Carisi guessed, because he felt like he was being interrogated by a former detective. 

“Has she talked to you about the case?” Carisi asked.

“She called me and made exactly the same arguments you’re making now. And my answer was exactly the same, and she laid on the guilt just as hard.”

“Yeah, all right,” Carisi said, making his way back to the door, “so, you’re not the brilliant, justice-minded lawyer I looked up to. About time I grew up and realized that, after two years. I promise you, though, this isn’t personal, this is all about Amy Tindall, what she needs. I’ll try to convince Hadid again.”

“Congratulations, Counselor, you’ve won the recipe contest for Thickest Guilt Trip. But my hands are tied, and there’s nothing I can do for you.”

“The Rafael Barba who I used to want to be when I graduated law school, he woulda found a way.”

“I can’t,” Barba said, a sudden earnestness creeping into his voice. “I’ve only just gotten back into the good graces of the bar association. You know I was almost disbarred over my stupid decision, don’t you?” 

Barba stopped in front of the mini fridge he kept in the corner of the office. “It’s Friday,” he told Carisi. “Go home and bring your Valentine a box of chocolates.”

Carisi snorted. “You know my only significant other these days is this job.”

“The first few years are tough. It gets a little easier three or four years in.” Barba opened the fridge and removed a rectangular styrofoam container, which he held in his hand as he stared at the shelves for a few seconds. “Hey, Counselor. I’ll make you a deal.” He placed the container on top of the fridge, then bent down and removed a second container, this one cylindrical. “I got a chicken soup with the lunch special I ordered earlier this afternoon.”

“You want to make up for your flagrant disregard of justice by giving me soup?”

“Of course not.” Barba cradled the container between his palms. “In my cohort at Harvard Law, way back when — all future brilliant legal minds but all 23 years old — made bets with each other over study partners, sharing notes, internships, days off, and so on. I will talk to my boss and possibly risk my already-shaky status with the Bar _if_ you finish this entire 16-ounce container of soup with a fork.”

“I’m not here to play games,” Carisi said, pressing his hand to the doorknob. _I’m not here to be any more disappointed in you than I already am_ , he thought.

“So you understand my point.” Barba set the cylindrical container next to the rectangular one, then turned back to Carisi. “My hands are tied, but I wish — I wish things were different. I wish things had been different two years ago.”

Carisi moved away from the door and grabbed the soup. Barba laughed. 

“I’m from Staten Island,” Carisi said. “I’ll never turn down a bet.”

“Here,” Barba said, reaching into a drawer for a plastic fork, which he handed to Carisi. “The conditions are as follows: you use this fork only, you check in with me on FaceTime every hour, and no slurping, pouring, or hidden spoons.”

“You trust me not to slurp?” Carisi said, internally flinching, but half-amused. 

Barba’s eyes flared. “You’ll check in with me on FaceTime once an hour. Otherwise, I trust you’re an honorable man, more so than I am.”

“Deal,” Carisi said. He set the soup and plastic fork back down and reached out to shake Barba’s hand. 

Barba’s hand enveloped Carisi’s. Carisi flinched again, this time at the sensation of the pad of Barba’s thumb running firmly over his knuckles. 

“You know I’m really gonna spend the rest of the day eating that soup with a fork. I hope you know I’m taking this seriously.”

“From someone who earned a JD and passed the Bar while working as a detective in one of the most stressful NYPD units there is,” Barba said, swallowing a lump in his throat, “I wouldn’t expect any less.”

—

The chicken, noodles, and carrots were easy. Ten minutes into his task, Carisi had nothing left but half a container of shimmering broth. Determined, he dipped his plastic fork into the broth and imbibed the dewdrop-sized bits of liquid that clung to the utensils. By 6, he was still in the office, still poring over the pile of cases on his desk, not even halfway finished with the broth.

He hoped that maybe evaporation would be on his side.

Sonny Carisi was not one to turn down a challenge, even if the point of that challenge was that the challenger couldn’t do anything to help him, to set the scales of justice right for Amy Tindall. 

Carisi’s phone buzzed. Barba was FaceTiming him, the first hour that he’d been the one to initiate the call. 

“It’s 6:03,” Barba said, “so I hope you’ll give up and go home for the weekend.”

“Weekend, what weekend,” Carisi muttered. He held his phone over the open soup container. “See? Definitely no cheating.”

“Sonny,” Barba said, the name he rarely used brimming with concern. 

“I’m fine. You know how it is the first couple years.”

“You can stop trying to finish the soup. There’s nothing I can do, anyway. That was the —”

“The point, I know, I know, but I’m gonna finish it.”

“Go home,” Barba said. Carisi could see from the background that Barba was still in his office too.

“I am,” Carisi said, “but I’ve got to take work with me. And the soup.”

“That’s it? Your plans for tonight are work and eating soup with a fork to prove a point to your asshole former colleague?”

“Asshole former mentor,” Carisi corrected.

—

Carisi didn’t call in at 7 because he figured Barba was wining and dining someone for Valentine’s Day, but he did take pictures of the now-twenty-five-percent full soup container as proof that he was adhering to the rules. He was surprised to see Barba’s face appear on his laptop screen at 8, while he continued to dip the plastic fork into the broth as he read through the evidence in yet another case that was inevitably headed for court. 

“What, no date?” Carisi teased, suppressing a yawn. 

“You didn’t call at 7.”

“I figured you were out.”

Barba was home, on his couch. “Who’d want to go out on Valentine’s Day with a disgraced former ADA who eats babies?”

“What glass of scotch are you on there, Barba?”

“Only one,” Barba said. 

“You’re full of shit.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Droplets of soup. I’ll order something soon.”

“It’s already 8,” Barba noted.

“Thanks for looking out for me, Ma.”

“I was going to order myself eggplant parm from that place on Avenue U.”

“You’re living in Brooklyn again?” Carisi asked.

“When I’m not on the road for primaries. Heading out to Vegas in a few days.”

“Don’t hit the bottle too hard.”

Barba, confused, wrinkled his forehead. “I have one scotch a night nowadays, not even every —”

Carisi cut him off with a laugh. “By “bottle,” I mean bottle of drugstore beard dye.”

Barba held his middle finger up to the screen.

—

At 8:45, Carisi still hadn’t had dinner, was still working on the same five goddamn cases, and had made maybe another half-centimeter progress on the soup. When his doorbell buzzed he assumed it was yet another neighbor’s friend who genuinely believed that the only way to gain entry into a six-story brownstone was to ring all six doorbells. 

“Ring the floor you’re looking for,” Carisi said into the speaker. 

“Carisi? It’s Rafael. I brought you eggplant parm.”

Carisi buzzed him up. 

“Can I trust you, or are you trying to poison me on account of the drugstore beard dye joke?” Carisi asked as he let Barba in. 

Barba was dressed far more casually than he had been earlier that day, in a long-sleeve black polo and blue jeans that looked almost tailored.

_Stop thinking about Barba’s jeans_ , Carisi warned himself, _stop thinking about the jeans of the mentor who grossly disappointed you._

Barba set the bags of food on Carisi’s dining table, shaking his head at the folders and the soup container set up near his laptop. “You’re determined, I’ll give you that.”

Carisi went to help Barba unpack the food. “Just get us plates and utensils,” Barba said. 

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know it doesn’t make up for what I did two years ago,” Barba said, “and I know for sure it doesn’t make up for how I left without saying goodbye. I left without telling you because, Sonny, I —”

“It’s all right, it’s all right, bygones and shit.”

Barba tilted his head and looked directly into Carisi’s eyes. Carisi, a little gut-punched, turned away and cleared everything except the soup off the table. 

“You don’t have to finish the soup,” Barba said.

“Yeah, I do.”

Barba licked his lips. “Because I challenged you?”

“You know that’s what kept me going all those years, when my sisters and half the PD thought I was a moron for thinking I could finish law school.”

“You don’t have to finish the soup,” Barba repeated, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Sit. Eat. Mozzarella.”

After Carisi had eaten a few bites of dinner, Barba continued: “I left without telling you because I was afraid of breaking your heart.”

Carisi rolled his eyes, the gesture not-so-carefully covering the fact that, yes, Barba’s series of bad decisions and hasty departure had, maybe a little, maybe too much, broken his heart.

“You think highly of yourself there,” Carisi said.

“I meant —”

“I know what you meant.”

“A few minutes after you left this afternoon, I set up a meeting with Jack McCoy. First thing Tuesday morning. McCoy knows he overprosecuted me, he knows he brought that corrupt anti-victim piece of toast to town, so if I argue that special victims should handle the sexual assault case in criminal court, he’ll listen.”

“So you let me eat soup with a fork for seven goddamn hours because —?”

Barba shrugged.

“You know, though,” Carisi said, eyeing the container, “I’m still kinda determined to finish it.”

Between bites, Barba smiled at Carisi. “Did I ever tell you how wonderful it is that you made it to the DA’s office, to exactly where you’re supposed to be with SVU? You should be proud of yourself.”

“You proud of me, Barba?” Carisi smirked.

“Yes,” Barba said seriously. “But I don’t think you should be on the Amy Tindall case when it goes to criminal court.”

“Here it comes,” Carisi said.

“No, no, no, I absolutely think you can handle it. You’re more than capable. My concern is that the DA and the Bar will accuse me of doing you a favor.”

“Why would you do me any favors?”

“Same reason I brought you dinner. You’re an admirable person. You’re too hard on yourself. But if you want to take on the case, I won’t do anything to stop you.”

“So what you’re saying,” Carisi said, his eyes fixed on the spaghetti he was twirling with his fork, “is that it wouldn’t be right for us to work on the same case because we’re too … close.”

“I don’t want you to think —”

“I don’t,” Carisi assured him. 

“I’ll admit, I entertained the thought when we worked together, but it would have been unethical back then. You testified in half of my cases.”

“Yeah,” Carisi said, “same here. So you’re bringing me dinner on Valentine’s Day and telling me I shouldn’t work a case ‘cause you and I are too close —”

Barba reached out and grabbed Carisi’s hand across the table. “Sonny, I’m sorry. I’m genuinely sorry. You don’t have to forgive me. But let me give you some advice: whatever it is that gets to you the most, and I know you have dark places in your heart just like I do, I _know_ , and I so wish you didn’t, but please take care of them before you bring them to a case like I did.”

Carisi inched his hair around the table — linoleum be damned — until he was close enough to kiss Barba. “I will,” he promised against Barba’s lips. 

Now Barba deepened the kiss, apparently hungrier for Carisi than he was for the eggplant as their teeth briefly met, again and again. 

“How about we leave the soup and the work for a while,” Barba suggested, “and —”

“Make it a happy Valentime’s Day?”

“Did you just say _Valentime’s Day_?”

“To piss you off,” Carisi said, petting the side of Barba’s face. 

“I thought you didn’t like the facial hair.”

“I like it. I’ll like it more sprinkled with salt and pepper. Same way I feel about the chicken soup.”

“Well, then,” Barba said, planting a kiss on Carisi’s neck and resting an open hand on his chest, “I’m sure we can think of a few places where you’ll _really_ enjoy it.”

“The soup?”

Barba laughed into Carisi’s neck. “No, you sweet baby giraffe, the facial hair.”

“Okay, okay,” Carisi said, grinning as he and Barba stood together and fell into an embrace, “how long have you been waiting to call me a _sweet baby giraffe_?”

“Years.” Barba pressed himself flush against Carisi. “Years and years and years and years.”

—

Carisi could not have imagined a better end to February 14th than sitting at his dining table with Rafael Barba at ten to midnight, eating eggplant parmigiana and drinking red wine in their underwear after Barba had shown him exactly what his new whiskers were capable of.

“You still haven’t dumped out the soup,” Barba commented.

“I don’t know, I kinda feel like I should finish it.”

“I was the one who challenged you, but now I’m making sure the case goes to criminal court, so I’m officially declaring that you don’t need to finish the soup.”

“Hard to just let a challenge go like that.”

“Sonny.”

Carisi smiled, and Barba reflexively smiled back in response. “Make you a deal,” Barba said. “If I ever screw up the way I screwed up two years ago —”

“We’re past that.”

“If I ever screw up like that again, you’re to pour an entire 16-ounce container of soup over my head.”

“Can it be minestrone?”

“Yes.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”


End file.
